The Cat's Meow
by Reiya Wakayama
Summary: AU, Recently discharged from the army for his injured shoulder, John decides he should follow his therapist's advice for once. He's about to get more than he asked for.
1. Cat's Cradle

**Title:** Cat's Cradle

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.

**Summary:** AU, Recently discharged from the army for his injured shoulder, John decides he should follow his therapist's advice for once. He's about to get more than he asked for.

**Rating:** G

**Warnings:** Alternate Universe, cat!Sherlock, slight h/c, therapy, implied depression.

**Pairings:** none

**Word Count:** 1,354

**Author's Note:** I just got this random image of Sherlock as a cat after my cat gave me a look that clearly said I was an idiot, dull and that I should either scratch her or leave. Similarity much? I can just imagine John adopting Sherlock, i.e. Sherlock allows him to become his dutiful servant, and going on random adventures.

xXx

"God damn it, Sherlock. I am not your pillow." John growled out in frustration.

Cool, sharp gray eyes gazed up at him with such disdain that he felt a little embarrassed for his outburst. Seeing John crumpling under his gaze, Sherlock just blinked slowly and settled back down, head resting on John's thigh.

Sighing in defeat, he reached down to scratch the cat between his ears, listening to the soft rumble of his purr, surprisingly deep in such a small creature. Looking down, he saw Sherlock's eyes half closed in bliss. He was the strangest cat's John had ever known. For one thing, he rarely slept, unlike most cats who slept whenever and wherever they felt like.

He was also more observant than other creatures, so observant that he seemed to be thinking, looking almost human in the eyes. He roamed the flat constantly, and at odd hours of the night and was prone to disappear at random moments as he explored outside. John had stopped worrying about that particular trait about a month into their so called association, for he always returned sooner or later. Often covered in dirt and other things he didn't try to identify, sometimes scraped up from scuffles with other cats.

He didn't know what had made him decide to follow his therapist's advice that his depression was because he had become accustomed to taking care of someone, or multiple someones due to the army, and that he just needed someone or something to take care of to get through it. She had even suggested him getting a pet, something that would be dependent on him but would not need overly much attention.

It was his friend Mike Stamford, though, that had cemented the idea. They had met the same day his therapist had given the idea, as he headed home through the park. They had gotten to talking and John had mentioned it in passing. Mike had jumped at it, telling him about the shelter he volunteered at on the weekends.

The next day, they had gone to look through the many animals. John had thought about what he would like and had come to one conclusion: a cat. Easy to care for and didn't need much attention unless they wanted it which was fine with him. And his landlady had already given the go ahead, Mrs. Hudson positively ecstatic over the idea of a fuzzy cat to pet.

He had briefly thought about getting a dog and had decided not to. It wasn't that he disliked dogs, but when he was little, he had been bitten by one and had been wary ever since. So he had gone out the next morning to get a few things: a food and water dish, a bag of dry food and a couple of cans of wet food in case the cat was a picky eater, a few toys which he had grabbed at random from the cat isle in the pet store, and a collar. He would get tags and papers once everything was settled.

As he walked among the many cages looking at the small cats of all shades, markings, and sizes, he finally realized how much pressure there was in choosing one. For one, they were all looking at him with such large, watery eyes that he wanted to adopt them all. But he was here for only one. Squaring his shoulders as much as he could with his shoulder wound still paining him, he set about picking just one.

He was feeling a little disheartened as none stood out to him, when he heard the sound of a cat hissing and screeching at the top of its lungs. Growls followed a harried looking vet assistant as she scrambled from the end of the hall where only a single cage stood apart from the rest.

Walking up, he peered inside. Hard, gray eyes glared back at him, black curly fur on end as the cat lay curled in a ball in the back of its cage. A clipboard was hung off to the side and had his name scribbled onto the paper: Sherlock.

"You know, you shouldn't do that to those trying to help you. It's not nice." He said softly to the cat, looking him square in the eye. He blinked slowly and the glare disappeared to be replaced by curiosity.

His tail flicked in contempt at his words and he curled up, back to John, ignoring him. Snorting in amusement, he opened the cage door, reaching in slowly. Quick as lightening, Sherlock flipped over, claws and teeth sinking into his arm and the web of skin and muscle between thumb and forefinger. He just gritted his teeth, keeping his hand perfectly still as Sherlock gnawed at his appendage.

As quickly as he had struck, he let go, glaring balefully. Finally, he gave a sort of huffed sigh, as if to say i_"You'll do_"/i.

"Oh, dear." Mike had come up behind him and saw the bloody mess of his hand. "We should probably get that looked at." John nodded, giving Sherlock's head a pat as he closed the cage.

Ten minutes later, he was back at his cage, hand bandaged and a determined gleam in his eye. Sherlock beat him to it though, jumping out of the cage onto him as soon as he got the door open. He clawed up his jumper to curl around his neck and shoulders, a solid, but skinny, line of warmth and fur. He gave a yowl that sounded like a command for him to get a move on and John followed with wry grin.

The main vet looked astonished at his choice, but said nothing of it, going through the usual procedures. In fact, she looked almost relieved to be rid of the cat. The vet assistant looked on sadly, blond hair pulled back and face pale under the harsh lighting of the room. Her name tag read out _Molly_.

It was now three months later and they had settled into a routine around each other. The first week was a bit of an awkward one as they got used to each other. Sherlock ignored him for the most part. He picked at his food, giving it a sniff and wrinkling his nose but still taking a nibble anyways. His toys, he batted with once and then ignored, already bored with them. The collar was never put on. Sherlock had taken one look at him with the collar in his hand and had bristled, back arched.

Sighing in defeat, he put it away. For the most part they saw little of each other, Sherlock hiding in the flat or disappearing outside while John was home and only reappearing as John set off for work. By the end of the second week, Sherlock must have decided it was counterproductive to ignore John, for one morning, he woke to his cold nose poking into his neck and a demanding yowl for him to get up and feed him.

After that, it seemed to get easier for the two. They still mostly ignored each other, but sometime when John sat with his cup of tea and biscuits, reading the paper, watching telly or just surfing the internet, Sherlock would climb up onto the couch and slowly inch closer and closer until he was pressed up against John's leg. When John absentmindedly scratched his head, the cat had just purred, startling the ex-army doctor into stopping. Sherlock had shot a glare at him and he had started back up again.

Now, months later, it seemed that that first month was just a dim memory. If at all John suspected his cat was going to be the center for more trouble than he wanted, well he didn't show it. Instead, he threw the now empty biscuit box after the streak of black fur that was Sherlock, yelling, "That was the last biscuit, you thief! Now I'll have to go to the store." Sherlock just flicked his tail, munching on his stolen prize and twitched an uncaring ear at the volume of his voice.

**End.**


	2. Cat's Eye

**Title:** Cat's Eye

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.

**Summary:** AU, a typical day for Sherlock is not at all what John assumes it is.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** animal murder, shape shifting, poisoning, everyday life.

**Pairings/Characters:** Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Anthea.

**Word Count:** 1,465

**Author's Note:** Another addition to my Cat's Meow series. I figure, it will be better to do some back story before plowing ahead with the plots from the show as I've done before.

xXx

A typical morning routine went along the same line usually: Sherlock woke John up and had the human feed him. Once he had eaten what he wanted, it was time for a wash as John got ready for work at the clinic. Once finished, around the same time John did, he watched him gather his things together and opening the window a crack, he would give Sherlock a scratch before leaving. After a few minutes, he would leave, via the same window left open, squeezing through and nosing it closed after him.

After that, things tended to go off course. He had the whole of London memorized already, but still, it needed updating when things were changed. He also checked with his people, a collection of stray cats, dog, birds and other animals living on their own in London, to see if there was any new news or cases for him.

What John didn't know was that Sherlock was a singularly unusual cat: he could find anything, if he set himself to it. He was a consulting detective of sorts, others often coming to him from other parts of the city to find this for them, or figure out something.

He was smart, though that wasn't saying much since everyone else was an idiot, except for those few that had potential to become more than they were. Those he worked with and guided along the way. Here was one such now, though he was not privy to these thoughts Sherlock had of him.

"Lestrade." He acknowledged the smaller gray cat that walked up to him. In the light, his fur almost shone silver, his amber eyes somber as they regarded Sherlock. "What's happened?"

"Another poisoning; we've not been able to pinpoint who is giving the poison. It's the same as before though: antifreeze. One of Layla's kittens."

He knew Layla, the mother hen of London, who took in strays of all species and cared for them until they got back on their feet. As a human, she was honored among them and marked as not to be touched and her home was sanctuary. She'd helped Sherlock a time or two, when he'd been hurt, before he'd met John.

"I'm on it. Where?" He asked, mind already working.

"In the back alley behind the tailor's on 18th street." The route sprang to the forefront of his mind and he was off, Lestrade keeping easy pace with him as they scaled walls and fences, going through back alleys and over roofs to get to their destination.

Others were gathered around the small brown body. The kitten was small, only a few months old, barely old enough to go outside. He circled it, looking for any clues. There was a smear of something on the little one face and he leaned closer, sniffing at it: beef broth. Strong enough to mask the odor of antifreeze.

There was also a fine white powder on his paw, residue from wherever it was he had taken the poisoned food. It couldn't have been far, antifreeze worked fast on the small ones. He'd only have been able to travel for a few minutes at first before the poison had gotten into his joints and started to spread. Sniffing at his paw, Sherlock sneezed, wiping his nose on his paw: salt, finely ground into a powder.

Sherlock stalked away as the answer appeared, clear as day. Tail lashing he sat down, licking absently at his leg. "The butcher's a couple blocks to the east of here. He is laying out bowls of beef broth laced with antifreeze. He dislikes cats, most likely from a bad past experience." He concluded.

He ignored the hiss behind him walking away as Lestrade shifted and grew in size. He like other humans that were smart enough to figure out what he had long ago found out: that with will and a certain twist of the mind, both cat and human could trade places. He'd been human originally, but preferred his cat form, mainly because it allowed him to get into places he normally couldn't.

Lestrade was another of those who had learned, after some instructing from Sherlock, and came to him with cases for both sides. At the moment, there was nothing interesting going on that required him in human form.

Walking onto the main road, he wove through legs, uncaring of where he was head so long as he went. It wasn't long before a sleek, black car pulled up and stopped beside him. Glaring at it, he sat and started to wash himself as the door opened.

A sleek brownish red cat oozed out of the door held open by his assistant. Mycroft ignored his glare as he walked forward. "Sherlock, how is John?" He asked staying standing.

"How is the diet going?" he goaded, fur standing slightly on end as his brother gave him a haughty look that said he wouldn't stoop down to Sherlock's level and answer.

"I have a case for you." He said instead.

"You always have a case for me, doesn't mean I'll take it." He quipped, sitting up again now that he was finished setting his fur to rights.

"The file is at your flat. Please return the item once you collect it." There was the unfortunate incident a few years ago when Sherlock had decided he wanted to test the unstable substance that had been stolen. The abandoned warehouse where he had done it was still in ruins and condemned until further notice.

Ignoring his snort, Mycroft nodded and left, jumping back into the car through the door that was held open by his assistant. By the time they had turned the corner, he would have already changed back. Stretching, he took off in the opposite direction. He had a stop to make before heading back home.

Billy opened the back door on the first yowl. Shortly, Angelo was brushing the waiter away, telling him to get back to work. "Ah, Sherlock. It is good to see you. What will it be?" He asked, crouching down to scratch Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock gave his version of a shrug, his ear flicking disdainfully. "We've some beef ravioli leftover." Sherlock flicked his tail and the man grinned. Standing, he went to grab a few of the morsels to give to the cat.

He could have changed back into his human form, Angelo had seen him change before, but it was too much work and he enjoyed his cat form much more. The man came back with a small plate and set it down next to a bowl of water. "On the house, as usual." He grinned down at him and left to continue working as Sherlock ate.

Finished a few minutes later, he set about cleaning himself thoroughly. Angelo came back, just as he finished. "Come back anytime, Sherlock. You're always welcome." Picking up the plate, he left, shutting the door behind him.

Using a convenient stack of crates, he crested the wall into the alley on the other side. It led straight to home. It was still early and John would be at the clinic for some hours. Nosing the window open, he slipped back in and shut it.

Between one blink and the next, he was shifting, lifting his tall frame from the floor to pad through the flat. The file was there waiting for him. Reading through it, he had the answer by the time he finished. Fishing out the cell phone Mycroft had left, he texted the solution to him and then hide the phone. It would certainly come in handy later on. The file was put through the shredder in John's office. Mycroft's people would be by later to clean it out.

The sound of a car door shutting announced John was home from the clinic. Shifting quickly, he walked into the main room. The sound of John and Mrs. Hudson talking down stairs floated up to him as he stretched his frame across the sofa, eyeing the door.

Finally, John started up, tread labored and punctured with the sound of his cane hitting each stair. Most days, he was able to ignore the painful limp in his leg, but on the occasion, it came back to remind him that it was still there. Must have been a bad day at the clinic.

The door opened and John limped in, hand clutching at his cane in a white knuckled grip. Shutting it, he limped to the sofa and settled himself into it, a grateful groan escaping as he was finally able to take his weight off of his leg.

After a few minutes, he turned to Sherlock. "So, how was your day?" He asked, smiling at the cat. Sherlock just flicked an ear, the usual.

**End.**


End file.
